


Arthur Kirkland's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by ClinicalChaos



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comfort No Hurt, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:11:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7726393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClinicalChaos/pseuds/ClinicalChaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...And how Francis Bonnefoy made it better. Even though he was nearly shot in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthur Kirkland's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> A simple little story for a rainy day. I hope you all liked it; please leave me a review if so! They really do fuel my desire to write. Also, my apologies to anyone who speaks French. This is the best a high-school French taker could do. Francis calls Arthur "My little thunderstorm." That's all you really need to know.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> ClinicalChaos

Arthur Kirkland was having a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad, absolutely shite day. Actually, Arthur Kirkland was having a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad, absolutely shite _week_. World meetings were pointless in general, but to Arthur the inanity seemed to have skyrocketed over the last meeting. Stupid plans, antagonistic jabs, and pettiness ran rampant. Most nations simply played on their phones or doodled, at least until Germany noticed and started yelling. The whole series of events only made Arthur's ever-present headache scream louder. Surprise paperwork from his stupid government had only been the topper on his crappy week. He'd been in such a poor mood for the last few days of the conference that even his brothers had steered clear around him. Spain had flinched away mid-taunt, and his former colonies had all walked on eggshells around him. Alfred had _ducked_ _into a closet_ just to avoid crossing paths with Arthur in the hallway.

Arthur would feel smug, if his stupid, uncooperative heart hadn't insisted on feeling _lonely_ instead. How idiotic. If anything, he should be _overjoyed_ his glare still held the power to silence a room! They said no man could be an island, but Arthur Kirkland very much _was._ And he was damned proud of it, too.

(He'd never really had any other option, but that was neither here nor there.)

The whole stupid incident left an awful taste in Arthur's mouth. Two layovers, four delays, and five hours total of traffic had only worsened his mood. Frankly, he was about ready to start screaming. Arthur wasn't sure if he'd ever stop if he started, though, so he withheld. Stiff upper lip and all that. Stepping out of the frankly awful taxi, Arthur grabbed his luggage, paid the man, and trudged down the lane. By all rights, he should have gone to his London townhouse, but by the second delay his skin crawled at the idea. Too many people (though he did love them all, truly; they were _his_ , after all), too much noise, too much _blah_. Arthur was a solitary creature by nature. He needed to decompress, especially after the last week. So, sod his paperwork, he'd gone to his manor house instead.

Arthur smiled. Burnt down and lovingly rebuilt no less than twice, Rose Hall had been Arthur's haven since his dear Queen Lizzie had gifted him the property. Now, the manor would serve his purpose once more. At least, if he didn't die in the process. Catching himself just barely as he slid on the steps, slippery with the rain that had been cutting down in sheets, Arthur cursed a blue streak. The paperwork he'd been tending to in the car was not so fortunate, however, and fell into his prized roses.

Arthur gave the soggy papers a disappointed look. Fine, he thought, and unlocked the door. Have it your _fucking_ way. His government foisted too much shit on him, anyway.

Throwing his keys into the bowl on the hallway table, Arthur frowned as the lights flicked on. Odd. Usually, he had to play with the electric down in the basement for a few minutes before those decided to work. Such was the problem with old wiring. Perhaps he'd finally run into a bit of good luck?

Or had someone - no, he was just being paranoid. Probably.

Pursing his lips, Arthur abandoned his luggage - he'd get to it in the morning - and slunk to his bedroom. A shower in the ensuite and an early bedtime would put him to rights, he thought.

Arthur was halfway up the stairs when he heard a noise, but dismissed it. The manor was old, having (mostly) survived the Blitz, and tended to creak. Arthur ignored his inner-self and carried forth. However, what he absolutely couldn't ignore was what had to be _baking cupcakes_ when the scent of them hit his nose as he stepped out of the shower.

What in the hell, Arthur thought, stunned. Running a towel over his body, Arthur shrugged on a pair of sleep pants (his favorites, set out in the dream of a _relaxing_ night) and a beaten band T-shirt (one could not survive on dress shirts alone). He didn't bother with slippers or shoes, knowing he could move more quietly barefoot. On his way out, he grabbed the gun in his nightstand. Arthur wasn't as fond of the weapon as Alfred or Switzerland, but nations had enemies and this wouldn't be the first time Arthur had found an unpleasant surprise waiting for him.

Granted, those surprises rarely brought baked goods, but Arthur hadn't survived a thousand years of bloody history without a healthy dose of suspicion.

(Or _paranoia,_ as Alfred was wont to muttered when he thought Arthur was out of hearing range. The brat.)

Silently, Arthur crept down the stairs. Hanging a left, he followed his nose to the kitchen door, which sat open a touch. Vanilla and chocolate – distinctly not burning, as when Arthur baked - wafted from the crack.

Stepping forward, he nudged the door open, aiming and sweeping the room in a fluid motion. Immediately, the invader froze, clutching an empty mixing bowl on its way to the sink. Arthur swore.

"God dammit, Francis," Arthur hissed. He flipped on the safety and tucked the weapon away in a drawer. "What the _hell_ are you doing in my kitchen?"

"I wanted to surprise you!" Francis cried. "I didn't know I would be held at gun-point!"

Arthur huffed. Not for the first time, he realized he was in love with an idiot. "Consider the mission accomplished."

Francis smiled, a charming expression that directly opposed Arthur's scowl. He swanned across the kitchen, stopping toe-to-toe with Arthur. Gently, he brushed a hand along the lines of Arthur's jaw. Against his intentions, Arthur lent into the touch. "Not quite, I would think, hm?" Francis murmured, his voice as gentle as a summer breeze. "Not if you still glare as though you are at war."

Arthur sighed, "It's been a hard week, Francis."

"I know, mon amour," Francis replied. He was soft, relaxed; so used of soothing Arthur's tempers that he wasn't fazed by the tension that ran like a current through Arthur's frame. Francis merely curled around him, height advantage allowing him to tuck Arthur's head under his chin. "C'est fini, oui? Now we can relax, mon petit orage."

Snorting, Arthur let his head fall against Francis' chest, taking comfort in the steady heartbeat that pounded there. Hundreds of years they'd fought, as though earning the right to love each other. Still, their world was far from peaceful. However, by some bargain or blessing, there was peace enough now for this. For them. Arthur was pragmatic enough to take advantage.

"I _do_ have a surprise for you, though," Francis added absently. One long arm slipped around Arthur's waist, caging him in, while Francis' free hand messaged the nape of Arthur's neck. Arthur only held out a few moments before going boneless. His bloody Frog knew him too well.

"Do you?" Arthur murmured, his mind fuzzy with contentment. He slid a heedless arm over Francis' shoulder. "I hope nothing taxing."

Francis chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "I would not dare! _Moi_ , put strain on you? Never!" Francis cried dramatically. Arthur couldn't resist a smile.

"There we are, mon coeur," Francis grinned, brushing a thumb along the curve of Arthur's smile. "I knew you could not resist my charms forever."

"No, I suppose not," Arthur hummed.

Francis' smile softened, his expression conveying what didn't need to be said. "Come," he motioned, proffering an arm. "Let me escort you."

With what amounted to indulgence, Arthur accepted the arm and let himself be lead out of the kitchen and down the hall. Francis felt good against his side, strong and steady, with the soft notes of his cologne tickling Arthur's nose. By the time they were at the observatory door, Arthur's earlier irritations felt almost beyond notice.

"Allow me," Francis said, sweeping forward to open the door was a teasing wink. Fondness swept Arthur's mouth into a smile. A smile that fell open in awe when the door swung wide.

Arthur had never spent much time in the observatory. The walls were mostly windows, which left the place feeling cold when storms blew in off the sea. Arthur rather despised the cold, so he tended to favour the study or the library, which both featured roaring fireplaces. However, looking around at Francis' masterpiece, 'cold' was the last word that came to Arthur's mind.

Candles covered every available surface, trailing a path of light along the windowsills and shelves. The corpses of long-dead plants had been removed, replaced with vases of fresh-cut flowers - roses, mainly, in more than half a dozen varieties and many more colours. Arthur's favourite chair, a ridiculous wingback that could easily hold two inventively positioned people (and often did), stood prominently in the room, heaped in blankets. Arthur's best china, an ancient set of porcelain that Arthur rarely had the reason or will to use, had been lovingly set on the coffee table. Arthur didn't have names for all of the desserts and treats set out on the delicate plates, but they had obviously been made masterfully and with the greatest of care.

And Arthur had pulled a gun on their maker. Lord, his life really was something else.

Pulling his mind from that direction, Arthur spun on Francis and pulled him into a kiss. Francis froze for a moment, surprised, before melting. His long arms wound again around Arthur's waist, settling like they belonged there, one hand coming up slowly to catch in Arthur's hair. It was a beautiful kiss, gentle and grateful and loving. Arthur rarely initiated this sort of thing, his personality not built for gentleness, his life not conductive to fostering it. Arthur would fight to the death for whom and what he loved, but very rarely could he express that in words or kindnesses.

Francis knew this, had known it for a thousand years. He could read Arthur's devotion in the cut of his snarl, in his odd mercies, in the way Arthur always returned when he swore he wouldn't. He'd learned how to compensate, how to coax Arthur into a kinder temper. Arthur, in turn, had learned how to let him.

They broke apart when the need for air grew too large. They stayed entwined, though, Arthur's head over Francis' heartbeat. "This is lovely, Francis," Arthur murmured. "Thank you."

Francis pressed a kiss to Arthur's hair, inhaling deeply. Arthur always smelt like sea salt to Francis, no matter how long he'd been off the water. Perhaps it was merely his romanticism peeking through. "'Twas no trouble at all, mon amour. You have had a hell of a week, as you say, and you know I would move the moon and stars to see you smile."

Arthur blushed outrageously, flooding from his cheeks up to his ears and down his throat. "Flirt," he coughed, and tucked his face in Francis' neck. Francis just barely withheld a delighted laugh. The Great Kingdom of Britain, scourge of the Seven Seas, and a couple of cheesy lines had him red as a Tudor rose. Of course, though, only for Francis. Anyone else would have been dismissed with a derisive snort and a cool green glance. Francis had seen it happen any number of times to various courtiers and politicians who thought the way to Arthur's heart was through his ear.

Little did they know, Francis had already invented that strategy, and no one was a better master than he.

"Come, l'amour, let me pour you a cup," Francis said. Arthur acquiesced, and before long they were both coiled together on the monstrous wingback, swaddled in soft blankets and sipping on artisan Earl Grey. Outside, the rain poured down like a plague from God. Beyond the wall of fog and water, Arthur could barely make out the roiling sea, no doubt more frigid and bitter than even the wind. Arthur smiled over the edge of his tea cup. For the first time in a very long time, he was happier to be on dry land than away with his mistress.

"I think this is the best tea party I've ever attended," Arthur murmured. He felt drowsy and pliant, Francis' possessive hand warm and steady as he kneaded at knots in Arthur's shoulders. He turned to steal a kiss, intrigued by how Francis' mouth tasted with a touch of chocolate on his lips.

Francis chuckled lightly, his eyes a half-mast blue that made Arthur think of home-bound horizons. "Simple moi has beaten out kings and queens? Sacré bleu, the honour brings me to my knees."

"Prat," Arthur replied, amusement upturning his lips. His eyes seemed to flutter shut of their own accord in the midst of the comfortable silence that settled on the room. The rain had become white noise, only just slightly less soothing than the cadence of Francis' breathing.

"It's perfect 'cause you're here," Arthur slurred, and at last gave up the battle.

Francis, smiling to himself in the low light, would not have liked to be anywhere else, or have life any other way.

 


End file.
